Routine
by sweetevangeline
Summary: Slashy stuff lies here, courtesy of a plot bunny that wouldn't let me sleep (ack, I need sleep *now*). A tale about how the Boy-Who-Lived is the Boy-Who-Was-Oblivious.


Disclaimer: These are borrowed toys.  
  
I've never really written femmeslash before. And, honestly, this is so open to interpretation. I haven't slept for a day or so and I'm having a little bit of block on another story I'm working on. This is. . .well, it's really terrible. Bloody awful, really, and now I'm going to sleep. It's a grey day that's perfect for it and now all the horrid little plot bunnies have gone onto greener pastures.  
  
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Hermione had the strangest dreams these days. They started out normally enough, with a simple research session in the library, and then everything went black and all she could do was listen. And all she heard was breathing. She couldn't tell if it was one person or several and she couldn't tell if they were in pain or something else, something unknown and more than a little scary. Two of the voices would pick themselves out of the cacophony and rise above her, moaning in a way that can only be described as ecstatic. Dream-Hermione recognizes the voices just as the lights start to rise, illuminating a tableau that she doesn't want to see, never wants to think about. In the dream, the figures just then start to become distinct, their features being lit. Then she wakes up, gasping for air herself, and reaching out to the other side of her wide bed, looking for someone.  
  
Only there isn't anyone there and all she can feel is the tiny warm spot on the bed that Crookshanks recently vacated. Usually by the time this is all over, the first rays of dawn are starting to peek over the horizon and Hermione rises with them. She walks to her large bathroom and performs her morning rituals, brushing her teeth the fabulously Muggle way that makes her feel so clean and taking a quick shower. Leaving the bathroom, she puts on her robes, layering as she goes. Underwear (still silks and satins, though why, she's not sure), skirt, blouse, the thinner robe that she only wears because it's so cold (today it's gold with fine scarlet embroidery around the collars and cuffs and the hem) in the castle and a heavy decorative robe that her status demands she wear. Before she leaves her large, ornate rooms, she reaches into a cabinet and takes out a can of cat food, opening it the Muggle way and leaving it for her pet, who purrs and shows Hermione the only real affection she's likely to see that day.  
  
Finally leaving her rooms, she makes her way to the Great Hall, where she is still looked upon by the students as a great figure, one to be respected, one almost, but not quite, equal to the Boy-Who-Lived. She will eat breakfast quietly, perhaps exchanging a few words with her fellow professors and then she will go about her day. She will conduct classes, teaching a horde of children about other hordes that had changed the world. She will eat a small bowl of fruit at lunch. She will conduct more classes, these perhaps the ones that she'll have to tell her stories to, the stories of her friends ((Oh, Harry. Harry, I'm so sorry.)) who changed the world with her at their side. Classes end and dinner arrives. She won't be there.  
  
She'll be in her rooms, seated across from a fireplace, waiting for it to spring to life and emit a friend that she's known almost as long as she's known herself. They'll spring out and dust themselves off, sitting down in the chair across from her. They'll sit for a moment, and one of them will call a house elf. Dinner will be ordered and, at some point, they'll start to talk.  
  
They'll tell each other the insignificant parts of their days, the stories almost always the same, with different names and faces attached in their minds. She'll, somehow, find herself without her heavy outer robe and seated with her head on a pair of slender knees ((creamy, not pointy, not too rounded)), a hand in her hair, being lulled by a voice she's fallen asleep to countless times. The house elf will arrive and she'll rise, with a grace she hadn't had at fifteen and they'll eat and quietly converse some more with each other, about the silly things that couples who are deeply and awfully in love talk about. Dinner will be over and they'll enjoy a glass of wine. After a moment of deep eye contact, one of them will lean in and lay their lips upon the other's and both of them will close their eyes and fall in. One of them will push the other away and look longingly into the other's eyes and murmur platitudes about how it can never be this way again, that the one time they allowed themselves more it'd almost ruined everything in a tumultuous rush of emotions.  
  
There will be a quiet startling moment when they look at each other and relive that evening in a second or maybe five. Then one of them will make an excuse and conclude the evening and Hermione will give a chaste kiss to the cheek of her lover and the Floo will once again be activated and Hermione will be alone again.  
  
She'll finish disrobing and settle into bed, all the while dreaming of the long red hair and deep chocolate eyes of her best friend's wife. 


End file.
